All That Can Be Taken
by November Envy
Summary: The Lady Mary reflects upon her sister in full knowlage that soon they will be connected threw more than blood, bound together by their losses. Very short bitter sweet fic. I placed historical importance before TV cannon.


Authors note: This story just came to me one day. It softness and defying harshness spoke to me and I knew it just had to be told. I hope anyone who reads this enjoys it as much as I enjoyed writing it. My love for the Tudor ear is always strong. i hope people can forgive any mistakes, I've only read and edited it once and I currently have no beta.

November Envy xox

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There wasn't much Mary was afraid of. To be honest, all that could be taken from her had either been stolen from her clasping, desperate hands or had many numerous close encounters to being snatched away by those wicked beasts that rejected her mother's marriage and proclaimed it a null and void scam. So it was more fair to say not much moved her world. It was true; she supposed that she had become closed off to the world. Where as once she would have delighted in the company of others, these days she shunned it and dreaded the thought. For now she was all but a lowly nursemaid to her bastard of a sister, born of The Great Whore. In her heart she was still a princess, daughter of Great Harry and the magnificently beautiful Catherine of Aragorn, but to all others she had been placed as a bastard, with no claim to the throne. Who would want her? And dressed as such, in the clothing of a nursemaid! The shame! And there was really on one person she could point the finger of blame at, Elizabeth. She could blame_ that_ _woman_ whose morals where so lose as to presume to steal away the husband of a good faithful and devout woman but that would not do, for as much as Mary's hate and detest for Anne Boleyn pulsed within ever morsel of her being it was not her who had stolen Mary's tile unjustly away. It was the daughter that the Great Whore bore that had snatched away the love of Mary's father and the title of Princess and heir to the realm. Yes, it was that red-headed little brat who had it all, all of Mary's former belongings. And the pure shock and indignation that had swarmed her mind and pumped threw her blood when she found out that she was to be _her_ nursemaid!

So Mary could be quiet certain on whom to lay the blame of her demise. The girl. And yet Mary somewhere with in this pure rage and hatred Mary had found another emotion, a most confusing and conflicting emotion indeed; love. The child had done the unthinkable; she had managed to grasp Mary's affection. Somewhere in-between all her hate and rage Mary had discovered that Elizabeth was just a sweet child who enjoyed songs and stories, who would play dress ups and coo over silly things. She was a sweet, if not overly intelligent child who displayed qualities Mary wished she could hate, but yet could not. And so it was fair to say Mary was not afraid of much, for she had already lost her mother, and her father's affection had dwindled to cool and aloft, her fine dresses and expensive horses had been taken and given to others and her dignity had been thrown to the floor and trampled on. But she still had her sister. Her kind, caring, milk pale and sugar sweet sister; whom she had helped raise. The only thing that frightened Mary anymore where threats to Bess' wellbeing. And while the three year old child remained in perfect health, Mary couldn't help but wonder, as she sat by a window, carefully threading a needle in and out, focusing on her embroidering skills, if after today Elizabeth's wellbeing would ever be the same. From her window seat Mary could see Elizabeth playing in the gardens with her Miss Ashley, running about the flowers, sunshine filtering through her red locks. She was blissfully unswears that with in the hour she would be little more than Mary currently was. And for Mary's part she could only fell a great sadness and regret that it had to come to this, another one of Henry's daughters left to grieve over a world that never was and never will be. Mary had tried to greet the new of Anne Boleyn's fate with great relief, for the woman's demise had been Mary's greatest wish, not only for the safety of the Kingdom and her fathers wellbeing, but also to serve her mother with justice. It should have been and day when all the weight in the world lifted of Mary's shoulders, but alas, she could only weep with despair on Elizabeth's half.

Somewhere in the distance sounded cannon fire and Mary stopped for a moment, lay down her embroidery and heaved a sigh. The red haired child fluttering around the garden below her threw her head back and laughed as Kat Ashley caught up with her and began to tickle her. The world was still the same in her mind, for she did not understand the sound of cannon fire the way that Mary did. It was the end of an era, the end of the rein of the Great Whore and the darn of the days of Jane, the rather plain. A lone tear run down Mary's check, she swiped at it angrily knowing full well today was a day of victory for her and her blessed mother. And yet Mary found no joy in it.

"We are both the same now pet." Mary muttered to herself. "Motherless bastards." And with that she returned her attention to her embroidering.


End file.
